Muet
by eirenical
Summary: In a world where the government controls even thoughts, free speech is a luxury few can afford. Les Amis believe it should not be a luxury so much as a right, and those in power will do whatever they must to silence them for good. When Enjolras falls to them, Les Amis are left reeling and without a leader, but R couldn't care less about that. He just wants his partner back.
1. Chapter 1

**Muet** (2004 words) by **eirenical**  
**Chapters:** 1/1  
**Fandom:** Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil  
**Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences  
**Warnings:** Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings  
**Relationships:** Enjolras/Grantaire, Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added  
**Characters:** Enjolras (Les Misérables), Grantaire (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Montparnasse (Les Misérables)  
**Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Government Conspiracy, Mind Control, Amnesia, Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, two different situations there, Mind Rape, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Muteness, Consent Issues, Rating May Change, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, this is not a happy story, though it may have a happy ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, ...probably, Rape/Non-con Elements

**Summary:**  
In a world where the government controls even thoughts, free speech is a luxury few can afford. Les Amis de l'ABC believe it should not be a luxury so much as a right, and those in power will do whatever they must - will *destroy* whoever they must - to silence them for good. When Enjolras is the one to fall prey to their machinations, Les Amis are left reeling and without a leader. R couldn't care less about that. He just wants his partner back.

**_January 9, 2014:_** Right. So... this story is proof that I am highly suggestible. I'll detail that more in the end notes. -.-;;; For now, all I'll say is that you should really check the warnings on this story before engaging. It's already pretty dark and it's only going to get worse. Consent issues will abound, as will eventual discussions of past rape. That being said, this is the most significant world-building I've done in a while and I'm very excited about how this world is shaping up, so I hope you'll give it a chance and come along on this ride with me. It's going to be a bear of a story and may possibly top FYFM for length when it's done. On the upside, my schedule is slowly beginning to settle, holiday exchanges are over, and I've picked up an AMAZING beta reader, so hopefully I'll start posting things more regularly.

...hopefully. -.-;;;

* * *

_**Muet - Prologue**_  
by _eirenical_

* * *

The bass was heavy, a deep thrum that settled into the space under Enjolras' rib cage and beat hard against his heart with every breath. It was pervasive, beating through the floor he weaved unsteadily across, the bar stool he caught himself on when he nearly fell, even the overly loud voices screaming after him, asking if he was all right. He wasn't all right. He couldn't feel anything but the bass.

When Enjolras made it to the door, pushed his way out into the crisp night air, and gained a little distance, the bass released its hold, finally allowed him to draw breath without interference. Its absence was an almost palpable presence, as though he'd been walking hard against a wind which had abruptly stopped.

"Whoa, there! You don't look so good. Need a hand over to the wall?"

In the sudden silence, the words made no sense and Enjolras raised his head dumbly to stare at the one who had spoken. Dark hair, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, blue eyes, and a once 5 o'clock shadow which had long since grown up into a 10 o'clock stubble. Enjolras gasped out a name, clutched at the worn green flannel under his hands and was immediately hushed.

"That's right. Right over here. If you're going to puke, please try to avoid the sneakers. You know how I hate having to replace a nicely broken in pair."

As though those words had been a prediction, Enjolras felt his stomach roll, marveled at how the entire street dipped and rolled along with it. He clutched harder at the green flannel with one hand, caught himself on the brick wall of the club with the other. He panted out a question, but when no answer was forthcoming, he was unsure if he'd even been heard much less understood.

There was a tangle of other voices then, coming from behind them, in front of them, and to the side, as well. Enjolras couldn't make heads or tails of what they were saying, but the tightening of muscles underneath his hands told him that the one who held him _could_ understand… and what he'd understood was nothing good. He bent low towards Enjolras' ear. "We're in a bit of a pickle here, Enjolras. I know it's not your strong suit, but you're going to have to trust me if you want us to get out of here with our skins intact. So, you tell me. You think you can trust me that far or should I be dumping your ass in the dirt and getting myself out of Dodge?"

Enjolras looked up into those eyes, winced as they hardened right in front of him, closing him out as though their own was already gone. Enjolras shook his head, relieved beyond measure when he was finally able to form words and force them out of his tongue-tangled mouth. "I may not always like you… but I do trust you, R. Get us home."

R's eyes closed briefly before opening again in a wry smile. "One short-order miracle, coming right up." Before Enjolras could so much as register R's intent, he was caught up in strong arms and pressed insistently back against the brick of the wall. The bass leeched through, set back up in his bones… and _itched_. He pressed a hand to his chest, fought the feeling that he was drowning in sound, cursed the knowledge that were it not for R's hands he'd be crumpled on the ground, unable to stand. R soothed him again, words that Enjolras couldn't make sense of, but accompanied with a gentle hand against his face, his chest, his hip, his brow - as though R would map him by touch alone. He relaxed into it, whimpered again as the steady stroking soothed the itch of the bass in the pit of his stomach. When he finally pried his eyes open again, it was to see a field of blue bearing down on him… just before a warm pair of lips closed over his own.

Enjolras was too stunned, too unsteady to do anything more than stay where he'd been put, flat against the wall, pinned by lips and hands and eyes… and the steady thrum of the bass inside him which made him yearn for something more. The voices receded, following the sound of unfamiliar footsteps past them into the club, and Enjolras finally let himself relax, giving in to the white noise in his head and the bass thrumming in his bones. R's soft words were the last thing he knew before he let the bass pull him under.

"You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe…"

* * *

"God _damn_ it, R! What the hell happened tonight?"

R jumped, his heart momentarily leaping into his throat before returning to its normal location. He'd all but forgotten Courfeyrac was even in the room. Pausing in his ministrations, he turned to face the furious eyes now glaring daggers at him. After a moment's careful scrutiny, R noted the downturned lips, the sheen of wetness gathering in the corners of Courfeyrac's eyes, the slight tremble in his hands - signs that gave away another emotion lurking underneath that anger.

Courfeyrac wasn't angry at R… he was afraid. He was afraid that all the work they'd put into this operation, the months they'd spent cultivating contacts, the resources they'd spent… the people they'd lost… would be for nothing. And they wouldn't know until Enjolras woke up, until he told them for sure if he'd been made or if they still had an operation left to go back under with.

R acknowledged that fear with a short nod and lifted his shoulders in a silent shrug. Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, finally threw his hands up and jerked out of his chair, kicking at it half-heartedly as he rose. Moments later, he had his hands buried in his hair and the force with which he pulled at his already disheveled curls left R wincing in sympathy for his abused scalp. Finally, he sighed, waved a hand towards the still figure beside R on the bed. "When he wakes up, I need to know what happened. I'm not sending either of you back under until we know it's safe. I won't lose anyone else. Especially not you."

Blue eyes met hazel and R nodded once to show he understood. Neither spoke the word, neither had to, but it was on both their minds and hung in the air between them like a ghost. Normally they two never spoke of it - neither was eager to prod at the other's scars more than absolutely necessary - but they'd almost lost Enjolras tonight. They were both feeling more than a little raw and exposed over it and weren't as careful as they should have been.

_Philadelphia._

Courfeyrac inclined his head, nodded once in return, turned on his heel and left the room. R turned back towards Enjolras and gently stroked a sweat-soaked lock of blond hair from his forehead, tried to ignore the way that forehead was creased, the way his eyes were squinted closed, even in sleep. Taking his partner's hand in his, R cradled it close to his chest… and waited.

"You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe…"

* * *

Hot. Sticky. Heavy.

Enjolras was having difficulty picking an adjective. They all applied. He groaned, tried to push himself into a sitting position, collapsed back on the bed after the attempt quickly yielded a harsh failure. Something was weighing him down. Glancing down at his chest, Enjolras saw nothing but a sea of wild, dark curls. Tentatively, voice hoarse from disuse, he guessed, "…Courfeyrac?"

At the sound of the name, those curls shifted, the person they belonged to groaned, and burrowed deeper against him for a moment before lifting away completely. This revealed blue eyes, a too-large nose, and a face full of stubble that now had delusions of beard-dom. There was a wry smile on those lips as he released Enjolras' hand and sat back. "Heh. No such luck, partner mine. Nobody here but us chickens." When Enjolras failed to respond, R rolled his eyes and briskly stood. "You need a bucket or are you gonna make it to the bathroom to puke your guts out?"

Enjolras' eyes narrowed as he levered himself into a sitting position, at last. "What makes you think I'm going to be sick?" The words had barely left his mouth when Enjolras' eyes widened, and he abruptly clamped a hand to his mouth, fighting down a surge of nausea. Shouldn't that have passed by now? R simply smirked as Enjolras fought his way free of the blankets and stumbled into the room's small toilet, where he was abruptly and thoroughly sick. Once Enjolras was finished emptying his stomach - eyes tearing and body shaking against R's as R held him up and gently stroked his hair - he finally got his answer.

"The emetic Joly gave you the second you started waking up. Whatever they slipped you was nasty, Enjolras. We had to get it out of you."

Before Enjolras had a chance to formulate a proper answer, another voice interrupted from the door to the toilet. "So, Sleeping Beauty has finally awoken from his slumber. Glad to have you back with us. Now, maybe we can find out what the hell went wrong."

Enjolras groaned, put a hand to his head as R helped him to his feet and maneuvered him out of the toilet and towards the room's only chair. Once settled, he looked up at R, frowning. R shrugged, nodded towards Courfeyrac. Enjolras frowned harder as he turned around. "Why didn't you ask R? He was there. He knows as much as I do."

Courfeyrac's eyes widened; his mouth opened, then closed, before his eyes briefly followed suit. He winced, murmured more to himself than to Enjolras, "Joly warned us that memory loss might be a side effect of whatever it is they gave you, but I didn't think…" Courfeyrac took in a deep shuddering breath before continuing. "Enjolras…"

Enjolras held up his hand, then, fought against it as his breath began to come in short, panicked bursts at the too gentle look on Courfeyrac's face. Whatever Courfeyrac was about to say, Enjolras was suddenly sure that it was bad. It was bad, and he didn't want to know it. He didn't want-

A gentle hand dropped onto Enjolras' shoulder, and Enjolras turned, eyes wide, pupils halfway blown in panic. R gave him a brief squeeze for reassurance, his smile soft and full of understanding. Enjolras didn't want his understanding. He didn't want his sympathy, didn't want anything to do with that knowledge R and Courfeyrac shared and he did not. He wanted to reach up, to grab onto R's hand and beg him to leave it be. _He didn't want to know._

R eyes shone with a bitter sympathy at the aborted movement and Enjolras forced himself to keep still, to not interfere. If R was strong enough to live with this knowledge, if Courfeyrac was strong enough to live with this knowledge, then Enjolras owed them his own strength to carry it, as well. He was not one for abandoning his friends to bear their burdens alone. So, he stayed silent, allowing himself to do nothing more or less than watch as R pulled down the collar of his turtleneck. And beneath it… Enjolras swallowed hard, staring in horror at the ragged scar that ran across R's neck, at the ugly mess of it, the whorls and ridges of a terrible wound which hadn't healed correctly, which had to have left damage far deeper than skin… a scar that Enjolras didn't remember having seen before.

This time, Courfeyrac did say the word, sadness and guilt giving it more weight than it could ever have had in another's mouth.

"Enjolras… I think I need to tell you about Philadelphia."

* * *

**A/N:** So, I have some major thank yous to dole out, here…

Thanks to frosthe for being an amazing tumble-buddy and for always being willing to field (and sometimes encourage) my odd-as-shit fic dream babble whenever I feel the need to spew it. Thanks to Luchia for being all around awesome and for being a writing buddy when I need one... and for accidentally getting me to start this thing. General thanks to punchythesecond, too, for always being so encouraging and an overall terrific human being and the best commenter I have ever had. You rock and, NGL, you help keep me writing. ^_^

And thanks, praises, statues and medals and ALL THE WONDERFUL THINGS to doeskin-pantaloons, a.k.a. MY AMAZING BETA, for taking time out from the already monumental task of catching up on FYFM (so as to beta-read chapter 14 when it's ready) to beta-read this for me. As always, this story is the better for having passed through her hands and any remaining mistakes or oddities are purely mine.


	2. Chapter 2

**_January 22, 2014:_** Well... this chapter was not written from a happy place and it shows. From here on out, we're earning our 'M' rating and there is some very dubious consent going on. If that is not something you want to read, please don't feel obligated on my account.

* * *

_**Muet - Chapter 2  
**_by _eirenical_

* * *

The pale glow of a computer screen was the only light in the narrow room. Combeferre hadn't set out to work in the dark; he hardly ever did. He'd begun working in bright daylight, doing routine maintenance and surveillance, nothing more, and the day had dimmed and hardened around him. The call came in late afternoon that R had lost Enjolras, unable to track him through the crowds gathering at the underground club. It had been too perfectly arranged, their every strength too perfectly planned for, to have been anything but an inside job. And _that_ was the biggest worry of all. For who could possibly have betrayed them like that?

Courfeyrac had been frantic from the moment Enjolras went missing, visions of another day and another city looming large over all of them as the day turned to night and the skies darkened. Call after call after call came in, none providing any more information than they'd had when Enjolras had first gone missing. Combeferre had been forced to watch his friend unravel, growing more and more desperate as the night wore on, until _finally_ R had caught the scent of their lost leader.

It had been a risk. They'd known it was a risk. It was always a risk, sending Enjolras into the field. He was more than just their leader - he was their symbol. As an entire generation of fictional wizards had look to one Harry Potter, so too, did an entire nation, an entire _world_, look to Enjolras for salvation. Without him, that fragile hope would crumble and everything Les Amis had worked towards these long years would truly be for naught. They couldn't afford to lose him. They couldn't afford to lose anyone. They were each crucial to the cause in their own way and it was only after deliberate weighing of pros and cons that any one of the core group was sent out on assignment. The benefits of the contacts they would make, the information they would win, were to have far outweighed the risks or they'd never have agreed to let Enjolras and R go. Only now… Combeferre didn't even know if they'd made those contacts, if they'd learned what it was Enjolras was so determined to learn from them. He didn't know if all this fear and worry had been worth it. So, he'd remained, locked in his computers, fraught with the need to find the leak that had nearly lost them Enjolras… and plug it.

"So, the prodigal son has been returned safe and sound, I hear."

Combeferre's head shot up, eyes darting from the laptop screen to the figure outlined by the light from the now open door. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness, Combeferre frowned at the deceptively soft voice. "Prouvaire, in what world and using what definition could you ever justify calling Enjolras a prodigal son?"

Prouvaire draped himself along the doorjamb, catching his long braid of dark auburn hair between nimble fingers and lifting it to brush the tip back and forth across his lips. As usual, Combeferre could practically see the unspoken words piling up behind his eyes - a flat green which hinted little and revealed nothing of what those words might be. Finally Prouvaire's lips lifted up into a small smile, his shoulders into a shrug, as he said, "A figure of speech, my dear Combeferre. It means nothing."

"All words mean something." Combeferre pushed back his chair and stood, uneasy as always to remain sitting when Prouvaire was standing. The softness in that slim body was deceptive, the beauty of features and face only skin-deep. There was a festering darkness inside Prouvaire and he was wont to lash out with it whenever the mood struck, no matter how inconvenient the timing. And that had been true for as long as Combeferre had known him, which wasn't long at all, not really. Prouvaire was one of their newer recruits and he'd won his way into the inner circle more by luck than by earning it. Combeferre had argued against it, but in the end had been overruled. Prouvaire had a skill they needed and they couldn't turn him away. It was as simple and complicated as that. Combeferre only hoped Enjolras' trust in the man wouldn't prove misplaced.

Just now, Prouvaire was throwing back his head and laughing the laugh of one truly amused… and slightly deranged. It wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring. When that laughter finally diminished to a few scattered giggles, he locked gazes with Combeferre and bit out, "Spoken words mean nothing. They aren't true speech any more than conscripts are true people." He waved a hand in the air, gesturing with the tufted tip of his braid as a look of disgust settled over his features. "None of it is real."

And therein lay the problem. Prouvaire truly believed that conscripts weren't true people - as though being reprogrammed by the government to act as a mere drone for the system made you any less a person, as though it were your fault for being reprogrammed in the first place. Even people with overridden personalities, even people who'd been conditioned to act in a prescribed way, were still people… still worth saving. But psychics… psychics didn't see it that way. That was the problem with all of them. Conscripts weren't people to them, they were dolls. Dress them up, manipulate them, force them to commit acts they would never agree to, do whatever you wanted to them; it didn't matter to a psychic, because to a psychic, no one weak enough to be rewritten was worthy of being fought for. Combeferre kept his shudder at the thought purely internal. The entire mindset was abhorrent to him, but he fought hard to control his natural prejudices around Prouvaire, because Enjolras was right. They needed Prouvaire. And above and beyond even that, giving Prouvaire this chance to prove himself was at the very core of what Les Amis were fighting for. Whether Prouvaire made his skin crawl or not, he'd still won free of government control and volunteered his services to Les Amis in exchange for what little protection they could afford him.

Enjolras had believed that there was something to be salvaged there, in spite of all of Prouvaire's years under the thumb of the government. Everyone deserved a chance to prove their worth, Enjolras said. But, Prouvaire… Combeferre couldn't shake the idea that Prouvaire was different. No psychic escaped the government. That was what all the propaganda said. The few who weren't created by government breeding programs were taken from their homes so early in life that they may as well have been. And the government warped all its psychics, training and subtle brainwashing turning them into megalomaniacs at best and outright sociopaths at worst. Prouvaire was no exception and proud of it. So, how could Enjolras trust him? How could Combeferre?

Combeferre wondered sometimes if it were even possible to learn to rewrite a person's entire personality _without_ becoming a sociopath. He wondered, too, if there was a genetic link between psychic ability and a penchant for sociopathy or if it was purely a connection brought about by nurturing - or lack thereof - but he'd never met a psychic who'd been untouched by the government, so who was to say? According to the government, such people didn't exist.

"Of course, they do, Combeferre. Don't play the simpleton. It doesn't become you."

Combeferre flinched back from the words, couldn't help it or rein in the reaction… knew it wouldn't have mattered even if he'd tried. Prouvaire would have read the lie of it and seemed to delight in catching Combeferre out on his prejudice. In response, Combeferre sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sent up a swift prayer for patience. "Montparnasse doesn't count, Prouvaire. He's crazy as they come and I doubt it has anything to do with psychic ability. And I'll thank you kindly not to go snooping in my thoughts. We have an agreement."

Another braid-accompanied flick of the hand and Prouvaire rolled his eyes. "Well, it can hardly be termed snooping when you've strung it up in neon lights, can it? We're all tired." Prouvaire lifted a hand to his temple and pulled a face. "And with everyone so afraid and then so excited and so frantic and fucking hell, Combeferre, I came here because I thought for sure I'd find Courfeyrac with you, and _he_ at least knows how to shut himself up so he isn't screaming in my head with his every thought. I need some peace and quiet, right now. So, where the fuck is he?"

They were so busy glaring daggers at each other that the rest of their surroundings had faded into the background - a dangerous habit in their line of work, even in a safe space such as this one - and both men jumped when a third voice said, "Right behind you. Now, move and let me by. You're blocking traffic."

Prouvaire startled again as Courfeyrac pushed past him, an irritated scowl on his face, but settled quickly enough, eyes narrowing in concern at Courfeyrac's brusque words. He could be brash, certainly, had passion in spades, but it wasn't like Courfeyrac to be so rude, even to Prouvaire. Before Combeferre could even begin to puzzle out the undercurrents in the room, Courfeyrac whirled back to face Prouvaire, a blaze in his eyes, a snarl on his lips, and a hand braced against his head. "And I didn't invite you, so get the fuck out!"

One slow blink. One slow blink which led to a slow grin which Prouvaire quickly turned on Combeferre. "Well, well, well. That doesn't sound like a healthy level of frustration. Been a while? Trouble in paradise?" Turning that slow grin into a leer and waggling an eyebrow at Courfeyrac, Prouvaire added, "If he's leaving you unsatisfied, I'm always willing to take you back. You know my number, sweet cheeks."

Combeferre's breath caught as hazel eyes clashed with green. In spite of an awkward beginning, Courfeyrac and Prouvaire generally got on all right… but they got on better with R to act as a buffer. Only, R wasn't here and things were far too heated in this room, already. If they didn't back down on their own… no one needed to be cleaning up after that fight, tonight. Combeferre edged quietly back towards his desk, finger already searching for the button underneath that would alert Bahorel that security's presence was needed. Courfeyrac caught the movement, of course, shook his head almost imperceptibly. Of course, he wanted to handle this on his own. Heaven forbid he should ask for help. To Prouvaire, Courfeyrac said, "Call me sweet cheeks, again, and I'll-"

"You'll what?"

Damn it, the man was fast! Combeferre's heart slammed up into his throat, his finger stuttering against the panic button as he fought not to press it. Prouvaire was practically melded to Courfeyrac's front, one hand twisted in the material of his shirt, the other sliding upwards to cup his neck, lips split wide in a sneering grin, eyes dark with ruthless need and desire - a desire to own, to possess, to _remake_.

Pulse racing over all the ways this could go wrong, Combeferre didn't even have to think twice. He hit the panic button, and at the same time he screamed as loudly as he could in the confines of his own head, ~_Back off, Prouvaire!~_

It worked. Less than a minute later, Bahorel and Musichetta were in the room and Prouvaire was half-slumped against the wall and cursing Combeferre in every language he knew - and he'd cracked open enough heads digging for foreign state secrets that he knew more than his fair share. Combeferre was sure his ears would be burning if he understood even half of them. Jerking his head at Prouvaire, Combeferre indicated that Bahorel and Musichetta should get him far, far away before something happened that they'd all regret.

Once they'd gone, the door closed behind them, and the room once more plunged into darkness save for the glow of the computer screen, Combeferre finally approached Courfeyrac. He was nearly doubled over, dragging in air in quiet gasps, eyes wide and horrified, pulse racing so hard and so fast that Combeferre could see the flutter of it at the base of his neck. He reached out a hand to gently trace the path Prouvaire's had almost taken: the chest, the shoulder, the ne-

Courfeyrac jerked away, eyes flaring impossibly wider as he stumbled back, bumped into the bed. He panted out, "Stay back." Closing his eyes tightly, Courfeyrac forced himself to take in a deeper breath, to attempt some measure of calm before speaking again. "I don't… Combeferre, I don't have time for this. Enjolras… it's worse than we thought. He doesn't remember anything since…" He sighed. "As near as R and I could figure, he's lost everything since a few months before Philadelphia." Voice dropping, he added, "He might have been tampered with."

Nodding slowly, Combeferre settled back, hitching himself up to perch on the corner of his desk. "So, that leaves you in charge until we find out."

Courfeyrac spread his hands in a wide shrug. "So, you see why I can't-"

Prouvaire wasn't the only one who could move quickly when he wanted. Though some part of him thrilled to the small, startled squeak Courfeyrac let out as Combeferre pulled him close, an arm around his waist and his other hand tangled in his hair, the rest of him simply felt sick at what he was about to do. There was a fine line with Courfeyrac in moments like these - a very fine line between true consent and "consent" driven by overwhelming need - and Combeferre sometimes wondered on which side of that line he was falling. He never could bring himself to ask… he was too afraid that he wouldn't like the answer. So, for now, he pushed the worry to the back of his mind. Yanking Courfeyrac's head back by the hair, he bent to press a hard kiss into the soft flesh below Courfeyrac's left ear before growling out, "_Make time._"

Courfeyrac's breathing was made of nothing more than rapid, shallow, panting, now, and Combeferre could hear the panic in it, could feel Courfeyrac's desperation in the hard pounding of his heart. Pressing closer, Combeferre breathed again into that ear, willing Courfeyrac to understand, to give in, to not make this any harder on either of them than it needed to be. "I've been watching you. You've been on edge for days, fighting not to ask me for what you need. It can't continue." Feeling Courfeyrac's chest move against his, the change in the quality of those terrified pants as Courfeyrac attempted to speak, Combeferre pulled harder at the hair in his hand, pulled Courfeyrac's head back even further. "You said it yourself. With Enjolras out of commission for the foreseeable future, you're in charge. We can't afford to have you distracted by this. You need me. You've needed me for days, but you won't ask. _Why?_" When Courfeyrac remained silent, Combeferre shook him once, thrilled a little again as Courfeyrac went with the motion, almost as limp as a rag doll in his arms. Almost… but not quite. Biting hard at Courfeyrac's ear lobe and wringing a ragged cry from that tightly locked throat, Combeferre said only two words more and they were words that brooked no argument.

"Ask. Me."

Courfeyrac tensed in Combeferre's arms, muscles trembling as he warred with himself over his answer. Combeferre could see it, the opposing needs battling it out behind his eyes… to give in to what he needed now, or to try to hold off further and risk breaking when it would be much worse.

…as if there were any real question of which he would choose.

Combeferre waited another heartbeat… two… three… and finally Courfeyrac pressed minutely closer to him and whimpered out a soft, "Please!" It was all the permission Combeferre needed. It was all the permission he dared wait for. Keeping his arm wound around Courfeyrac's waist, Combeferre let his other hand unclench from sweat-tangled curls and slowly drift down, ghosting over one cheek, then over chapped and bitten lips, to wrap gently around Courfeyrac's neck. As his hand closed over that tight column, shifted to cup it from the side, Courfeyrac drew in one last stuttering breath… and went limp, his eyes glazing over.

Combeferre laid Courfeyrac gently back against the bed, reverently kissing each piece of exposed skin as it was bared to his mouth. Quiet instructions were given and obeyed to assist Combeferre in divesting them both of their clothes, and Courfeyrac was quiescent through all of it, responding to the commanding tone in Combeferre's voice but offering no contribution of his own other than an occasional hitched breath when Combeferre's lips found a particularly sensitive spot, when his fingers twisted just so.

Courfeyrac would let Combeferre do anything to him like this: tie him up, beat him black and blue, hurt him, use him, whatever Combeferre chose. He would raise no objection, offer no safeword, no matter how he might wish to. It put a weight and responsibility on Combeferre's shoulders - to push just far enough but not too far - which, of late, he'd begun to weary of carrying. But no matter how weary he became, he would carry it, and he would do so uncomplaining, because his was the lesser burden here.

And because of that… No games tonight, Combeferre decided. He'd pushed hard enough just to get Courfeyrac this far. A few more softly murmured commands saw Courfeyrac on his elbows and knees before him, head bowed over his clasped hands. Combeferre opened him with fingers, and tongue, then again with fingers and a generous portion of lube. Obedient as he was being on the surface, Courfeyrac was tighter than usual tonight and Combeferre had no desire to hurt him.

Not tonight.

When Courfeyrac gave a soft, sobbing cry beneath him, Combeferre finally removed his fingers, replaced them with his cock, pushing in in one smooth, steady thrust until he was buried to the hilt. He stopped there, smoothing a hand down Courfeyrac's side as they gasped for air in unison, as Courfeyrac instinctively tightened against the intrusion, whimpering involuntarily as that worsened the pain. Combeferre held him through it, running his hand down Courfeyrac's side, then back up over his chest and belly, his other hand gripping Courfeyrac's hip to anchor them both. When both actions served to do nothing more than cause Courfeyrac to tense further, Combeferre left off his gentle caresses and sighed, muttering half to himself, "You would pick tonight to fight it, wouldn't you?" Leaning forwards, draping himself heavy and full of intent over Courfeyrac's back, Combeferre allowed a hint of a growl to color his words as he spoke them into Courfeyrac's ear. "I didn't want to hurt you. Not tonight. Not when I needed you as badly as you needed me. Damn it, Courfeyrac. You couldn't give us one - fucking - night?"

With those final words his only warning, Combeferre reached down and grabbed Courfeyrac's arms, yanking them from beneath him to force them up behind his back and using the new leverage to slam him face first into the pillows. The abrupt change in angle and diminished air had Courfeyrac jerking beneath him until Combeferre spoke again, the snap of a command in his voice. "Be _still_."

The effect was instantaneous. Courfeyrac froze, finally going limp again beneath him. Combeferre reached down to wrap his free hand around Courfeyrac's throat, using that none-too-gentle grip to pull him up onto his knees and against Combeferre's chest. At a hissed order from Combeferre, Courfeyrac reached his arms back, clasped his hands together behind Combeferre, locking him in place, the stretch of it forcing his back into a painful arch. Tightening his grip on Courfeyrac's throat and thus forcing his head back onto Combeferre's shoulder, Combeferre pressed his other hand low against Courfeyrac's belly bringing them together from shoulder to knee,

From this angle, it was difficult to move too much or too quickly without tumbling them both down, but Courfeyrac's cock was already leaking pre-cum. He'd held off too long and the brief struggle had brought him to the edge faster than he might have come otherwise. Combeferre briefly considered letting his hand drift lower, pinching off Courfeyrac's cock as he was already doing to his throat, but decided against it. He really hadn't set out to cause pain tonight, had wanted to get through one damned time in bed with Courfeyrac _without_ having to cause pain. Just because he'd lost that opportunity didn't mean he wanted to cause any more pain than necessary… and he _never_ wanted to cause Courfeyrac pain out of frustration or anger. Courfeyrac would know the difference, even as far gone as he was, and Combeferre would never forgive himself once he started down that road… and Courfeyrac wouldn't forgive him, either.

So, Combeferre contented himself with gently squeezing Courfeyrac's throat, allowing him increased air only to the timing of Combeferre's thrusts, his other hand remaining heavy on Courfeyrac's stomach but not drifting lower. Within a minute, Courfeyrac was gasping harder at the air he was allowed, his arms trembling as he fought to keep them clasped behind Combeferre. Combeferre recognized those signs, grateful that this hadn't lasted long, at least. As he squeezed Courfeyrac's neck one last time, he commanded, "Come for me… Now."

As Courfeyrac gave in, doing exactly as commanded, Combeferre released his neck completely, shifted that hand to wrap around Courfeyrac's chest to hold him up as he gasped his way through his orgasm, hands still tightly clasped behind Combeferre. As Courfeyrac trembled in his arms, exhausted from the force of his release, Combeferre slowly lowered them both to the mattress, careful to turn Courfeyrac's head to the side so he didn't smother himself as he kept his hands clasped. Combeferre settled between Courfeyrac's legs, nudged them forwards just enough to give him leverage, and then began rolling his hips, drilling down into Courfeyrac's finally completely pliant body, sparking often enough against his prostate for him to begin jerking and twitching beneath him from the overstimulation. He wouldn't come again tonight, not after such a struggle, and this was the closest to punishment Combeferre would allow himself to go for Courfeyrac having forced Combeferre to hurt him. Punishment by pleasure.

After just a few more thrusts, Combeferre found his own release. He lay there for just a moment, resting against Courfeyrac's back, still buried inside him, before leaning close to murmur, "Good boy. You've done well. You can let go." As Courfeyrac did just that, hands releasing at last from their death grip on each other, Combeferre rolled to the side, pulled out with a wince for how Courfeyrac jerked at the movement. He turned Courfeyrac into his chest, began softly stroking his hand down one flushed cheek and murmuring the words that always brought Courfeyrac out of these fugues... "You're safe, now. Come back to me. You're safe, now. Come back to me…"

Courfeyrac took longer to return to himself than usual. Combeferre blamed it on how long Courfeyrac had put off seeing to his own needs. He'd pushed himself too far this time, waited too long. Combeferre understood why, but that didn't mean he could let it continue. They'd have to talk. Later. When he'd been forgiven for pushing something Courfeyrac had obviously not wanted pushed. Seeing awareness only slowly begin to return to Courfeyrac's eyes, Combeferre cursed quietly at the haze of confusion and the hint of fear which lingered once that awareness returned to bruised and hollow eyes. At his next round of repetition, Courfeyrac asked simply, "We're… finished?"

Combeferre would have been a fool to not notice the way that tension returned with awareness, the way muscles began coiling like a spring ready for release. At Combeferre's solemn nod, Courfeyrac couldn't get out of his arms fast enough. He always had such a short time to enjoy the moment before reality settled back in, before the shame of what he'd done forced any thought of enjoyment from his mind… before he began to dread the next time Courfeyrac would need him thus. Tonight was no different. And as he listened the quiet sounds of retching began emerging from the toilet, then eventually the sounds of the shower turning on. As the gust of steam billowed into the room indicating the water had been turned on far too hot and then kept that way, Combeferre forced down the need to be violently ill himself. He let himself wonder, once again, which side of the line he was on… and with a sinking feeling realized that he didn't have to wonder, at all.

Curling up on his side, facing away from the toilet, Combeferre pulled his knees to his chest and for a moment, while there was no one there to bear witness… he cried.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter is completely unbeta'ed and my apologies for that. I had a rough weekend and I needed to feel like I'd done something productive and I'd had this sitting on my hard drive almost ready for posting for days. Any and all mistakes are purely mine.


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